Working for the Band Read online

  “All I did was try to ask Max how he’s doing. And then when that blew up in my face, I told him that I care about him.”

  That earned me a surprised look.

  “No, not like that,” I assured him, glad it was dim at the front of the bus because, for some unknown reason, my face was heating up. “I wasn’t hitting on him or anything, just...you know, that I care. Like humans are supposed to for each other.”

  “Maybe...” Gary said and then didn’t finish.

  “Maybe what?”

  He shrugged. “Going home was hard for him. He’s probably feeling pretty raw...”

  “Raw, that’s the word Tony used.”

  Gary nodded. “Maybe it’s just too much for him right now. He needs to work through it. He’s the kind of guy who takes time to process things—he’s not impulsive. Don’t take it personally if he’s not receptive to your gestures, as well-intentioned as they may be.”

  Well, it was hard not to take it personally when he freaked out and walked away from me.

  I picked at a rough spot on my nail (so much for that mani) and looked out the windshield, watching the yellow line racing along the road, watching it wobble along every so often, not quite straight.

  “Is there more to it?” Gary prodded after a long moment when neither of us said anything.

  “You know there is,” I said. “Since you’re obviously psychic.”

  He shrugged, which meant it was up to me to spill.

  I exhaled and then blurted out, “I got mad at him and said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  “Like?”

  “Like that his girlfriend wouldn’t want him torturing himself over what happened.”

  “That kind of thing can be hard to hear.”

  “No kidding.”

  He took his eyes off the road long enough to catch mine, looking at me intently when he said, “Especially if it’s true.”

  I nodded.

  “Sometimes being the one who survives feels worse than being the one who didn’t. It can feel wrong to get joy out of life when someone you loved can’t anymore.”

  It made sense. And it seemed like the more the other guys were having fun, the more Max withdrew. He was on tour, following what was—at least at one time—a dream. But maybe he was only on tour now, since the accident, because he felt like he owed his girlfriend that. So it wasn’t all in vain.

  But was he enjoying it? Was the dream diminished because of his loss? There was no denying he was built to be a musician but was he smothering the joy it brought him because he felt guilty about it?

  “You’re saying he has survivor’s guilt?” I asked, throwing a look over my shoulder to make sure we were still alone because I did not want him to catch me talking about him. Not again.

  Gary shrugged as he reached for his water again. “I’m no shrink, but could be. How would you deal with being in his shoes?”

  I took a breath and hugged my knees in tighter, laying my cheek on the right one, facing Gary. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in lo—I’ve never had a really serious boyfriend. But I think probably not any better than he’s doing. Probably worse, actually.”

  “Maybe,” Gary said. “Maybe not. But you’re not doing everything wrong, Sandy.”

  I lifted my head to look at him straight on.

  He glanced over at me and gave me a smile. “Being there for him—being a friend, even when he tries to push you away—is doing everything right. You’ll see. It just takes time.”

  “But how am I supposed to make him see that it’s okay to move on?”

  “You can’t. That’s for him to figure out,” he said. “I know you’re a problem-solver, but you can’t fix everything.”

  I was about to disagree, but before I could say anything, he went on. “You can’t, Sandy. Not all problems are yours to fix. All you can do is not let him push you away. That’s the sign of a true friend.”

  Maybe that was why I found Max so frustrating. Maybe I was frustrated because he made me feel like I was failing at cheering him up. Failing at making him get over his grief. Failing at making him see that he was wrong.

  When it seemed I was the one who had it wrong. Who was I to say what he should be feeling or how he should get over his grief?

  It was my light bulb moment. Just like Gary was saying, it wasn’t my problem to fix. No wonder Max kept trying to push me away. It was a wonder he hadn’t pushed me under the bus.

  “Ugh,” I said, unfolding myself and standing up suddenly, having to grab the arm of the seat when I got a little dizzy. “You’re totally right. I was looking at it the wrong way, and now I’ve gone and completely pissed him off.”

  “Your heart was in the right place. Just give him space and time, he’ll come around.”

  I seriously doubted it but appreciated Gary’s assurances nonetheless. I stretched and yawned, suddenly very ready for bed. “Thanks for the chat, Gary,” I said. “Anything else you need before I turn in?”

  “Anytime, kiddo,” Gary said. “And I’m good. There’s a rest stop about an hour from here, so I’ll stop to take a quick break. You head on to bed—big day tomorrow.”

  Though it felt weird, I had a sudden urge to give our teddy bear of a driver a big hug. Between him and Tony, it sort of felt like I had two dads on board. But he had his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road and obviously I didn’t want to distract him from that, so I didn’t hug him, but I did pat his shoulder affectionately and thanked him again before I left him to his driving.

  After using the bathroom, I climbed into my bunk and lay awake for a long time, thinking about what Gary had said.

  And more importantly, what I was going to do next.

  Seattle

  We rolled into Seattle the next morning, parking at a truck stop on the outskirts of town for breakfast. Tony and Will hung behind on the bus to, presumably, talk about Will’s final tour dates.

  I suspected it was also to talk about him staying on. I’d seen the twinkle in Tony’s eye that told me he did not want Will to leave the band.

  Neither had he said anything about anyone else leaving, and we were about to pick up Chris at this tour stop, so I wasn’t sure what was up with that or what his plan was. And my best friend—the acting tour manager and daughter of the producer—well, if she knew what was going on, she wasn’t blabbing. Not that we’d had a lot of time or any privacy away from prying ears for me to put the squeeze on her for information, but it’s not like she was volunteering anything, which was pretty disappointing.

  The rest of us went inside the diner and met up with Chris and Lindsay, his girlfriend, (a surprise, but a great one) for breakfast. I quickly forgot about Will and Tony when I had to take it upon myself (with Nessa’s help) to put Chris’s girlfriend’s mind at ease. Because while she was obviously excited for him, she was also clearly scared that he was going to dump her for a groupie or worse—one of us—and it felt like our duty to calm her fears and let her know that Tony worked the guys hard and there wouldn’t be any time or energy left for crazy parties or random hookups.

  After the meal was over, Tony sent me and the guys back to the bus so he and Nessa could debrief Chris and Lindsay. Full from what was always our biggest meal of the day (the guys definitely did not want to go on stage with full stomachs, because that just asking for trouble) we all moseyed toward the coach.

  I came up alongside Will. “So,” I said, leaning into him.

  “What’s up, T-Bow?” he asked casually, nudging me back with his elbow.

  I kept my voice low. “So you told Tony you’re not going to stick around?”

  He did a double take and then looked around before he said, in a low voice of his own, “How did you know? Did he tell you?”

  “No,” I smirked up at him. “You just did.”

  He nudged me again, a little harder this time. “Damn it, Sandy.”

  I laughed. “Sorry-not-sorry. But it’s true, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “It�
�s been cool, though. No regrets.”

  No regrets? Except maybe that he hadn’t yet hooked up with Nessa? It wasn’t the right time to go down that road, but I was also thinking about his career.

  Giving him a sidelong look, I said, “You sure you don’t want to stick around? Sounds like Tony would make room for you.”

  He hesitated, that pause telling me everything I needed to know about how he felt about leaving. “Nah, it’s time. I need to get back...”

  Oh, really. “Back to what?” I asked.

  He muttered something that may as well have been, “Nothing, I’m just totally making stuff up so you’ll stop badgering me,” for as much as I believed it.

  I gave him a withering look, which he pretty much ignored. I was about to say more, but then remembered Gary’s words from the night before—that not all problems were mine to solve.

  Boy, was that going to be a tough lesson to learn, especially when there was stuff I could do. Like, hook up friends who obviously needed my help to get them together.

  It didn’t take long for Darren, Graeme, Will, and Andy to settle in at the front of the bus to play video games. It seemed like when no one was sleeping, they overcompensated for when they had to be quiet by being extra loud and rowdy. Normally I didn’t care, but I wanted to get the ‘spirit animal’ gallery done so I could start posting the different shots. Random yelling and jumping up and down, making the bus sway when it was parked, was not conducive to me getting any work done, so I took my laptop and headed to the back office of the bus. It wasn’t like going to a different building, but it would be a slight improvement.

  Max was sitting there, his laptop open in front of him, headphones on.

  “Hey,” I said as I slid my computer onto the table and sat across from him.

  He looked at me warily, giving me his best caged animal impression.

  I held up a palm toward him and shook my head. “I’m not here to grill you or get in your face, I’m just here to work. It’s too loud up front.”

  I’d never seen someone look so relieved. It was almost insulting, but I kept reminding myself how Max’s demons were his and I didn’t own them.

  I wanted to tell him that I’d been wrong, that I wasn’t trying to fix him (anymore) but that I’d be there for him if he needed me. But as much as I wanted to put it out there, I didn’t want to spook him. He’d figure it out in time. I just had to trust that he needed space and would come around like Gary’d said he would.

  Max nodded and repositioned his earphones on his head. I had already looked down at my laptop and reached for my own, almost missing his nearly inaudible, “Thanks.”

  I lifted my eyes and nodded back at him, biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t smile or say something. He wouldn’t understand how good it felt to have him offer that little truce. It was like I’d just opened the door of his cage and stepped back, waiting to see what he would do, only for him to take a cautious step forward toward me.

  It was tiny, but it still felt like a victory.

  A few minutes later, something drew my eyes up from my screen.

  That something was Max staring at me weirdly. I pulled my headphones off and cocked my head. “What?”

  He scowled, and all I could think was, “Now what?” But I didn’t say anything, determined to let him have his space.

  “There’s this girl...”

  My eyebrows went up because really? We were doing this now?

  But he quickly shook his head. “No, nothing like that. A fan. She’s...she’s been posting a lot on Instagram.”

  I’d mostly been watching the band’s official group accounts and keeping an eye on hashtag searches, so I hadn’t seen what was going on the guys’ individual feeds (though I did write some of the copy for them to post on their own) so I didn’t know who he was talking about. Or what she was saying, though I already felt like I’d seen it all when it came to obsessed fans.

  “What kind of things?”

  His face got pink, and he looked away from me. “Just fan stuff. Like that I’m her ‘boyfriend,’” he said, doing air quotes around the word boyfriend. “How she feels about me and the kind of dates we’d go on—weird things like that. No boundaries.”

  “Anything threatening? Stuff that’s too personal?” I asked, putting on my professional hat—Tony had told us more than once that we had to be really careful with fans who toed the line on boundaries. Look what had happened to Andy when that fan had kissed him at the meet and greet and had gotten pictures of it.

  It could have been way worse, though Andy hadn’t helped when he’d engaged. But since then, everyone understood why we all needed to be so careful.

  Max shook his head. “No, nothing personal. Well, too personal for my liking, but it’s not like she knows me or is talking about my family or anything.”

  “So this is you just feeling weebed out by it?” I asked, not blaming him, but needing to know. Though as I was asking, I was pulling his feed up on my laptop.

  “Maybe. It’s just...she posts so much, tagging me all the time, you know?”

  I shrugged. “She’s obsessed.”

  It seemed like pretty standard stuff, unfortunately. Other guys would have eaten up the attention, but for Max, it was something to be endured.

  I’d often wondered why he’d ever wanted to be in a boy band in the first place. Maybe he hadn’t realized how much of the attention he’d get would be the unwanted, over the line stuff that went way beyond ‘he’s a great musician.’

  Though knowing Tony, he’d never have let Max sign on without fully knowing what he was getting into. Max had to have known and been prepared for it. I thought he just ignored it, so it seemed odd that he’d be paying attention now. Clearly, he wasn’t even the tiniest bit interested in the many offers the guys got over social media. And anyway, Tony had debriefed all the guys about engaging with fans—nothing good ever came from engaging with or encouraging fans.

  “Just make sure you don’t give fans even the tiniest bit of hope. Don’t engage at all.” We said it over and over, but some fans could get so persistent and downright pushy.

  “I haven’t,” he said. “It’s just...it’s weird.”

  He laughed humorlessly and shoved his fingers through his hair as he looked at the band poster that someone had taped to the wall (that had been drawn all over with Sharpie, giving the guys mustaches, glasses, and of course, blacked-out teeth). “I don’t understand why fans get like that. It’s not like I’m giving any reason for them to think...” he shook his head as he trailed off.

  “I know,” I said. “Andy looks out at the crowd and connects with everyone on a personal level. Graeme and Dave, too—like they’re playing and singing right to them, somehow. Darren’s a showman who’s fun to watch. But you’re different, and some girls connect with your...detachment.”

  “So I’m supposed to be like the others?” he asked, his eyebrows coming down. “You telling me I’m supposed to put on an act?”

  “No,” I said. “Not at all. You be you. You guys all have your own personalities—that’s a good thing. I’m just saying that your broodiness—” I held up a palm so he’d let me finish my point because he’d already opened his mouth to protest. “Or perceived broodiness is what works for some fans. That’s what makes them googly.”

  He shook his head and looked at me skeptically. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes plenty of sense,” I said. “They want to fix you.”

  “Fix me? Fix me, how?”

  I did my best to hold his gaze like I wasn’t speaking on a personal level as I shrugged and said, “You know, help you get you over...things. What happened to you. Some girls are fixers and look for ‘projects.’”

  Thank God he didn’t seem to think I was talking about me. Not that I’d ever gotten googly over him, but there was no denying I’d tried to fix him. But that was a different issue; I wasn’t an obsessed fan, more like a misguided colleague with good intentions.


  “Really? Girls are into that sort of thing?”

  “Some are. It makes them feel needed, important, like they make a difference in someone’s life.” Somehow I managed to not choke on the words as it became so clear that I was totally talking about my DIY self.

  He nodded. “I guess that makes sense. So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Besides not engage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not much you can do other than ignore it.” I shrugged. “I can take over your account if you want to get away from it.”

  “Don’t you have enough on your plate already?”

  I snorted. “Don’t you?”

  “Good point, I guess.”

  “I do Nessa’s and some of the other guys’, right? You can trust me,” I said and then held my breath because it was suddenly really important that he did trust me.

  “I know,” he said as though it was no big deal, which said that he did trust me. That it was a non-issue for him was a huge relief for me.

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “But maybe one less thing to worry about will let you focus more on the music and performing.”

  “That would be cool,” he said, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders until he sagged a little. “Are you sure, though?”

  His blue eyes were trained on mine, and I’d never seen him like this, without wariness or an edge, his ever-present stiffness eased, if only a little. It made me realize how wound up he was all the time—sometimes it was easy to forget when he did such a good job to hold it all in.

  The fixer in me wanted to get up and wave her pom-poms that I’d gotten through, even a tiny bit.

  It’s working. Though it was still too early to proclaim that I’d won him over completely, that I’d cured him of his caginess.

  Baby steps, Sandrine, baby steps.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Anything I can do to make your guys’ lives easier, I’m happy to help with. I’m not just a pretty face, you know,” I joked.

  He chuckled and lowered his eyes shyly, and for the first time ever, I attached the word adorable to Max Lindstrom. Who knew?